The transport hummed just below hearing as it skimmed fifty meters above Costa del Sol's northern countryside. Dawn remained an hour away, the landscape shrouded in darkness save for scattered pinpricks marking ATA outposts and defense installations. The air inside the cabin tasted of metal and ozone, the familiar cocktail of enhancement technology and nervous anticipation.
Kasper stood at the tactical display, watching approach vectors illuminate in silver. Unlike conventional military bases with clear boundaries, the ATA had hidden their supply operations in plain sight—an abandoned mining complex retrofitted with copper-tech. The metallic web beneath his skin responded as it detected familiar enhancement signatures in the facility below, a cold tingling like ice water in his veins.
"Shield active," Diaz reported, the ports at her wrists cycling blue as she monitored her equipment. Her fingers danced across the controls with almost childlike enthusiasm. "Three surveillance drones on patrol. Gen-Four tech, visual spectrum only." She spoke with the quick, clipped cadence of youth—excitement barely contained beneath professional veneer. "This is going to be cake."
Torres shot her a withering look, his weathered face creased in disapproval as he studied the display with machine-like focus. His targeting systems mapped defenses with the detached precision that came from surviving too many operations to count.
"Two reinforced positions, northern entrance. Four operatives, standard copper configuration." His voice carried the gravelly, measured tone of a veteran who'd watched too many optimists die. "Never call it cake, rookie. That's when it goes to hell."
"Conventional teams would split the attack vectors," Kasper observed as his internal network processed options. His exoskeleton whirred softly—a sound like distant clockwork—distributing weight across enhanced pathways. "They'll expect that approach."
"So we do the opposite." Vega's rumbling bass contrasted with his careful handling of his modified MAB. Amber light pulsed beneath his weathered skin like a heartbeat viewed through amber glass. "Single point of entry. Maximum force. Let 'em wonder what hit 'em."
"Vertical insertion," Kasper confirmed, already outlining the approach. The connection points at his spine tingled with anticipation, a not-unpleasant electric thrill. "The ventilation shaft above the eastern chamber. Diaz kills surveillance, we drop in sequence. Twenty seconds from in to objective."
Torres frowned, the expression making his scarred face even more severe. "Shaft's too narrow for standard approach."
"Standard approaches don't account for what I can do," Kasper countered, confidence flowing through his enhanced nervous system. The exoskeleton would provide support, while his silver adaptation would handle the impossible. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened viewport—silver filaments visible beneath the skin of his throat, pulsing with a life of their own.
Vega studied him, amber ports calculating. The big man's eyes narrowed, concern softening his usually stoic expression. "Your condition's accelerated since The Farm," he observed, his voice dropping to a rumble only Kasper could hear. "You're pushing beyond what we've seen."
The question hung unspoken: How far could Kasper go before something broke? His father's warning echoed in his mind like a half-remembered dream—rejection syndrome could spiral beyond control, silver adaptation becoming something unrecognizable.
"Drop point in sixty seconds," announced the pilot through comms. Her voice carried the tight control of someone focusing on precise details rather than the overall danger. "Shield at maximum. Window: fifteen seconds."
"Masks," Kasper ordered, securing his own tactical interface. The transparent faceplate hissed as it sealed, displaying copper signatures and environmental readings. His silver network merged with its systems, expanding his awareness beyond standard parameters. The smell of his own breath inside the mask—coffee and synthetic protein—reminded him of his humanity despite the technology flowing through him.
The team assembled at the deployment hatch with practiced efficiency, equipment checks swift and thorough. Enhancement ports synchronized with soft clicks and whirs, communications verified with subvocal confirmations, weapons primed with mechanical precision.
"Primary objective: restore supply nodes," Kasper reminded them, KS-23 secured across his back. The weapon's weight felt like a promise against his spine. "Secondary: intelligence on Operation Crucible. We hit fast, strike hard, create the opening for Torres's conventional forces."
The transport slowed thirty meters above the ventilation shaft, dampeners straining to maintain stealth at reduced speed. The hull creaked softly, metal under stress. Below, the ATA installation continued its normal patrol patterns, oblivious to the threat above. Through his enhanced vision, Kasper could see the copper signatures of the guards moving with mechanical regularity—like clockwork toys following preset paths.
"Insertion window opening," the pilot announced. "Mark."
The hatch slid open with a pneumatic sigh, night air rushing in—cold, crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant smoke. Kasper positioned himself at the edge, eyeing the impossibly small opening below. The darkness seemed to breathe beneath him, a living thing waiting to swallow him whole.
"See you at the objective," he said simply, then stepped into empty air.